


Pretty Pictures

by INTPAquarius



Category: Original Work
Genre: A bit confusing, Author sort of knows what author is doing, Edit is in order, F/M, Gen, No Fluff, Not really though, OC gets stabbed and pulls the knife out, Please Don't Kill Me, School Project, Short Story, graphic description of gore, un-betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:50:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INTPAquarius/pseuds/INTPAquarius
Summary: Times passes and changes by each turn, making sure no one's life is the other one's alike. How is it then, that the father and the son are the ones that part from that rule?





	Pretty Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, shit. I'm nervous! It's an original work, guys, and it's far more nerve-wracking to post one of these than the fan fiction stuff, if you ask me, that is! :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Death is painful, even teasingly so if you’re not careful. It was quick or slow, the quick one is highly appreciated by everyone and sought out by some. This was something he had a lot of personal experience with. Wanting to feel how the blade felt against soft skin, water filling up pink lungs or even the rough snare around a stiff neck. He had always wanted to die on his own terms, as it turns out, he might as well not have the choice.

Maybe this was how death was supposed to come; unexpected, sneaking around one's back and attacking with a fierce force of sheer willpower and darkness. Maybe this was why he was still alive. Maybe death was not to be granted just yet. Of course, it could be something a 'the moment' kind of thing, but then again, it could be something else. 

Either way, how the hell he had ended up on the floor of a warehouse was not a mystery. He had followed a very specific person, the person he now knew had something to do with his mother's death. The woman had been the one who had been his mother's doctor back in the days, and it turned out that it hadn't been a mistake that she had died. The doctor wasn't as innocent as her looks suggested because not long after he had caught up with her, she had stabbed him with a knife in height of the endings of his ribcage and a touch to the right. The knife hit something in there, destroying it, that much he could tell. She had, of course, gotten away, but that was at the moment not registered in his brain. 

He'd reached for the handle of the knife that still was embedded in his kidney and if he had thought it through, he would've let it stay in. Kidneys are soft and they leak a ton of blood if punctured. The blade was coated in red and slippery in his hand, falling to the floor without him meaning to let it go. He had a strong feeling he'd die like this, without having any control whatsoever over his death. It was quite painful, yet his head was still working as it should, and he called for an ambulance to come and get him in time for him to pass out. 

Warm and scratchy linens were the first things he became aware of, and immediately he knew that he was alive. Because why the hell would hell have warm and scratchy linens? Opening his eyes, they landed on the human in the room - a doctor. The two of them didn't speak much, but he was told to leave the hospital as soon as he'd gotten his clothes on and the painkillers in his pocket. A surgery which had removed one of his kidneys had been done, but with that and a couple of months of rehabilitation later, he was back to kicking dust in his enemies' eyes, theoretically speaking since they seemed to be doing the same thing. 

He managed to find a job as an assistant at a law enforcement team that were in desperate need of employees. He wasn't really suited for the job, considering his past injuries and the hot temper he showed when dealing with direct confrontation, but he got it done and that was what was the point. He even slowly started to socialize in the neighborhood, and he found most of them quite pleasurable. He even met a woman who caught his heart at first sight, which he had thought to be impossible before now.

He got to know the woman and soon married her. She was beautiful, wonderful, and simply stunning to look at and be around; she was his gemstone. She had eyes like the tree's leaves in the summer and hair, brown like bark. Her laughter was an orchestra, musical, and made everyone around her join in on the pleasurable sound. They lived a couple of years together, bathing in both moonbeams and sun rays alike, wondering about and imagining a future in which they were happy beyond measurement in a family of more than two. 

His wife gave him a son, one who he cherished above all else. A beautiful and wonderful child who, if held and played with, screaming with laughter matched the sound of his mother. If the sun shone upon his hair, it looked like a halo adorned his head. If the moonbeams did the same, it gave him a haunted look and he'd look like a ghost. Not that it reduced his adorableness in any way, and both of the parents loved him more than anything. Unfortunately, it was part of what made their relationship crumble under the tips of their fingers, even when treading as lightly as possible.

He and his wife never broke apart, too afraid of what might happen, but they never returned to the peaceful state their marriage had been in. His wife had informed him that she was being with other people to 'to make things tolerable' and he had expressed his dislike of such thing. He had tried to reason with her, telling her that if she truly was so miserable, he'd let her go and they wouldn't have to see each other again. She had refused and then continued with her wild and crazy nights as the drunk and the free woman she would've been hadn't she married him. Unfortunately, she died of cancer, one that had gotten worse when none of her organs were working properly. 

He knew these turbulent thunderclouds in front of him that were contained within his son's eyes. Because this was not something new. This had happened so many years ago, and he knew exactly how this would end. This was not his son killing him. This was him killing his father and living his life as it would have him to do. This was him dying on the floor of a warehouse where he had been stabbed and left to bleed out by the woman who had operated on his mother and had her killed. This was him, seeing the pretty pictures of his life flash before his eyes. This was him, dying.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hela Livet i ett Flimmer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104008) by [INTPAquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/INTPAquarius/pseuds/INTPAquarius)




End file.
